In Graying Twilight
by WargishBoromirFan
Summary: During Gondor's summer councils of 2972, Finduilas seeks the love of a mysterious captain. Denethor has had enough of his father's strange new favorite. After their previous encounter, this was the last turn either expected. A Den/Fin Files collection and loose sequel to "As Golden Leaves Upon the Sea."
1. Bitterness

**Title:** Bitterness  
**Fandom:** LotR  
**Characters:** Denethor, Finduilas, Thorongil, and mentions of Adrahil, Imrahil, and Ecthelion  
**Prompt:** 37: So wear me like a locket around your throat; I'll weigh you down, I'll watch you choke  
**Rating:** PG  
**Summary:** Denethor figured his visitors deserved each other.  
**Author's Notes: **Written a while back, this fic provided the frame for a bit of a Den/Fin miniseries that I've been adding a bit more of Denethor's perspective to in order to slip in a few continuity nods. Not my characters.

* * *

Denethor considered himself a patient man. The heir could not entirely say that he was upset when Thorongil upstaged him on the battlefield. He was willing to tolerate Thorongil's eccentricities in court. Denethor could forbear from displays of temper when the foreign captain countermanded his orders. But this was becoming too much for even him to handle.

His father had not even pretended to hold the two of them as equals in his sight. The dry, calculating voice in the back of his mind told Denethor that Ecthelion only valued them each to extents of their relative usefulness, and expressed it only as each man allowed him to. But in this case, at least, Denethor was not willing to listen to reason. He could not stand the way the Steward doted upon Thorongil's every accomplishment.

But that had not been the last straw. That came when Prince Adrahil and his children visited the court in the summer of 2972, just a little more than a year after Denethor's first encounter with the family. Although the potential marriage alliance with Finduilas had not worked out as planned, Denethor had rather liked the Dol Amrothians, all things considered. Adrahil, although too lax in controlling his councilors, had become something of a political mentor to Denethor, and Imrahil was one with whom the Steward's heir could speak frankly about his worries for the future.

Then, there was Finduilas. There had been no further discussions of marriage or courting between them. She had certainly not seen him at his best, and had not been willing to give him much of a chance to begin with. But still, if they were not in love, Denethor liked to think he understood her.

That made her sudden warmth towards Thorongil all the more baffling. She had seen what happened to the maidens that went directly after Gondor's favorite rising soldier, and had decided upon a more circumspect route, but Denethor never remembered seeing her wear her hair in that elaborate, delicate style while he was in Belfalas.

As Denethor recalled, Thorongil's official reason for refusing all suits was that he was engaged to a woman back "home," wherever that might be for the vagabond warrior. Such an arrangement seemed odd to the Steward's heir. When was the last time Thorongil had seen his precious fiancee? Surely, if they were truly in love, the former Rohirric captain would find a station closer to home, (and hopefully, out of Denethor's hair,) or his bride would come to Minas Tirith. The White City was safe enough, was it not? Denethor promised himself that he would choose a bride from here in Gondor, so that they would not be separated more often than necessary.

Let Finduilas chase Thorongil, Denethor bitterly dismissed the matter. They deserved each other.


	2. Sabatoge

******Title:** Sabatoge  
******Fandom:** LotR  
******Characters:** Denethor, Imrahil, Thorongil, and mentions of Adrahil, Ecthelion, and the girls  
**Prompt: **'Cause your crystal ball ain't so crystal clear  
******Rating:** PG  
******Summary: **What Thorongil sees he might not get; Denethor's got this_ flagit_ thorn in his side.

**A/N:** I'm tellin' all y'all I don't own anything. Don't ask me why most of my other soundtracks for younger characters from more modern fandoms include classics and a more varied playlist, whereas all I need to feed my Denethor muse is "From Under the Cork Tree" with smatterings of Incubus and the Beasties. It gets you a new ficlet and more polished versions of older stories.

* * *

It was not an argument. Neither man would have admitted to that. By family standards, Denethor's voiced concern and Ecthelion's dismissals of his son's fears had been perfectly cordial. Even so, Thorongil remained newly appointed captain to Gondor's eastern border, the Steward remained unconvinced by his son's contentions, and the Captain-General seethed inwardly through the rest of the summer council meeting and the festivities following it that night, though he made an effort - however poor - to convince himself that his tightly-wound fury stemmed entirely from the newest captain's unpredictable nature, Thorongil's secretive past, and how it could come to risk Gondor's safety. That was a factor in Denethor's current foul mood, certainly.

He had not left the Steward's ball immediately after Thorongil's public instatement simply because it would not be politic to allow his temper to override courtesy. If he had avoided his father's gaze and spoken the absolute minimum with his visiting sisters and their husbands before making his exit as early as he could reasonably construe as polite, Denethor had seen and been seen in his unreadable mask of calm by those he'd needed to. His elder sisters were used to seeing him duck away even when he was in a better mood - they had met his eye and given him a mix of not-quite-silent pity, triumph, and exhortation when the one pair of hazel eyes he had truly wanted to see at the ball lingered instead upon the new captain - they would accept their little brother's shortness from long experience with his renitence laced with affection and arrogance.

Imrahil of Dol Amroth had also come to Minas Tirith with his father and sundry other nobles and their retinues, and Denethor's lip did not twist upwards entirely out of courtly training when the young man attempted to delay his exit. "Will you not join us in another toast to your men, my lord?" Imrahil asked before flicking his gaze to where the star of the night abashedly accepted congratulations from his many admirers, quite a few of them female, young, and lovely, though but there was but one admirer that both men outside the cluster about Thorongil found their eyes lingering upon. "You look like you could use a drink."

"I must return to my studies and prepare for early morning duties before the council resumes," Denethor begged off. Though any other friendly face might have been welcome, at least once he had left the public halls of the ball behind, Imrahil was not the man Denethor wished to vent his frustrations with, if indeed the Steward's heir were in the practice of unloading his bile to a sympathetic ear.

Imrahil grimaced. The youth had sat through his first session of the full council of Gondor rather dazedly, occasionally turning helplessly to his father as if to ask Prince Adrahil to put what the Steward's other liegemen had said in context and plain speech. The court of Belfalas ran much hotter and more openly in their courses than here in the shadow of the White Mountains, where little stood betwixt the capitol and the black lands of the east but for rangers that popped out of the trees to the north and disappeared just as quickly. Their women, especially, tended to focus precisely upon what they wanted even when attempting to match Minas Tirith's ladies for subtlety... but Denethor would not think on that. "But of course, duty calls, and you have never been one to shy from it," the young Dol Amrothi saluted his elder. Denethor would have felt better for the compliment if he had not watched Imrahil join the crowd about Thorongil during his last look back at the ball. The young man was charming, above all else, not unlike another who had swept into Ecthelion's court and won hearts where heads should rule.

The Steward's son retreated to his chamber, poured a glass of wine, and went over the minutes of the previous day's meetings until his eyes stopped watering. With too much tension remaining in his hands and jaw to prepare notes for tomorrow, he rose and allowed himself the luxury of pacing his own room. He still heard distant music from the party, snatches of laughter and talk as others made their retreats from Ecthelion's great hall. Much of it sounded inebriated, or at least drunk with giddiness, and Denethor peered out into the corridor before allowing himself the luxury of pacing the back hallway between his own chamber and the Steward's empty study instead. As heir, Denethor had to maintain mastery of himself at all times, but there were days and nights when the walls of his rooms came too close, the air too still, and nothing useful could be accomplished within them until his thoughts could settle. Until then, the Captain-General settled for observation and patrol.

He had gotten to the end of the corridor and halfway back when he heard the creak of the old stairs above his father's study. No one went up there; Ecthelion had abandoned the upper room to storage years ago. Though a more optimistic man might attribute the sound to a wine-drenched fit of nostalgia on the part of the Steward or his daughters, Denethor had never been an optimistic sort. He was stubborn, certainly, but he did not enter the study in hopes of regaining favor with a happier moment spent with his father. The Captain-General considered knocking for all of a heartbeat at the door, but better to apologize for his own intrusion than to allow an intruder to slip away into the gaggle of retiring guests. Denethor kept his hand above his knife as he took in the empty study and the open door to the tower lookout above it. "Father?" he called in a tone neither too loud nor too worried as he started up the winding old stair. It would not do to sound hasty.

"I saw Lord Ecthelion off to his chamber," the dark-haired shadow in the upper room eventually answered him. It was a son's duty to see an old man safely to his room when the hour grew too late for genteel celebrations. Denethor bit back an uncomfortable, irrational burst of anger at both his father and this stranger who presumed too much. For all his humility in the face of public honors, for all he shrunk under Denethor's gaze as he toyed with a candle set next to the dust cover over some rounded plinth, Thorongil went too far. "I thought I had left something up here and thought to fetch it on my way back."

"When would you have been up here to abandon your possessions?" Denethor's steel glare was usually enough to still most men in their guilt, but Thorongil left his hand upon the round top of the covered globe far longer than the Captain-General was comfortable with.

Thorongil's eyes flickered briefly to the stars outside before he swallowed and made his reply. "It must have been my mistake. I have left it somewhere else, most likely." With a deliberate bow, he brushed past the man in the doorway, candle in hand.

Denethor was torn between slamming the impudent foreign-born captain against a wall and searching him for stolen goods and making a thorough sweep of the room. But it was dark, and he wanted as little contact with Thorongil as possible for fear of finding a prize from Dol Amroth as much as from an abandoned storage room. He shuttered the window back up and made his way down in the darkness. As he passed the pillar Thorongil had been standing by, his hand brushed the top of the dust cover. It was hard as stone beneath, and strangely warm.


	3. Face Forward

**Title:** Face Forward  
**Fandom:** Lord of the Rings  
**Characters:** Denethor/Finduilas, (with Imrahil and Thorongil guest-starring)  
**Prompt:** 4: "everyday is the same / when looking straight ahead; / caught in the safety of routine"  
**Rating:** G  
**Summary:** Playing second fiddle is nothing new for Denethor son of Ecthelion.  
**Author's Notes: **While I've been putting off the Finduilas-centric chapters for later, the main title comes from a trio I subtitle "Confessions of a Tweenage Thorongil Fangirl," so she and Imrahil both get their turns here. Originally, I meant to find some way to work these puppies into "As Golden Leaves upon the Sea," but for now, it's an excuse to skip ahead to Minas Tirith. Also, I seemed to have worked a lyric from an entirely different song into the fic, thanks to Imrahil, though this particular chapter is the most heavily edited from its original version. Not my characters.

* * *

The second night of festivities brought Imrahil to the Steward's high table during the feast, and the young man was rather surprised to have Lord Denethor himself to his left. The heir of Gondor said nothing directly about their seating arrangements, but Denethor seemed to relax a hair when Imrahil smiled at him, returning his greeting with a cool geniality before the start of the meal. Whatever had driven Denethor from the dance last night still troubled him, but he at least seemed willing to mend any troubles with his younger friend, if not discuss them. The tall man stayed silent throughout most of the courses, steel gray eyes transferring to what Imrahil deduced to be the root causes of his discomfort.

"Honestly, the man shows no decorum." Denethor's eyes unwillingly followed the expressive, lean hands of Gondor's favorite captain as Thorongil shared the story of his latest exploits. The Steward's son sat as straight as possible, fending off any potential accusations of sulking by attempting to make up for the other man's lack of propriety.

At his side, the younger man nodded, his chin on his fist, as if encouraging Thorongil on. "He's crazy, but I like him," Imrahil said with a slightly mischievous smile. "As does my sister, apparently." Indeed, Finduilas had been listening raptly to the captain's stories all evening, unconsciously reaching up to smooth her hair when she thought he wasn't looking. Her brother stole a glance at Denethor as the Dol Amrothi lady did this. Denethor's expression never wavered, but his eyes wandered back to Finduilas during the intermittent pauses in Thorongil's tale.

"Typical." The brooding, solitary man shook his head fractionally. "I had thought her wiser than that."

"You thought she was more in love with you than that," Imrahil corrected in an undertone. He didn't dare look his host in the eye at that moment, but he would have loved to have seen Denethor's guilty expression. The sudden lurch at the edge of the youth's peripheral vision would have to be enough. "You're going to have to make the effort, if you really want her, you know," he continued blithely. "I like you, Denethor. I don't want you and Finduilas swallowed in these silly, prideful games. But if you hurt my big sister, man, I will kill you."

At last, he and Denethor were able to exchange looks. "You don't hesitate to say what you think, do you, Imrahil?"

The youngster smiled, turning away. "Neither should you."


	4. In Graying Twilight

**Title:** In Graying Twilight (Being the True Confessions of a Tweenage Thorongil Fangirl)  
**Fandom:** LotR  
**Characters:** Finduilas, Thorongil, Denethor, Imrahil, and Adrahil  
**Prompt:** 49: Where can I run to, where can I hide; who will I turn to now I'm in a virgin state of mind  
**Word Count:** 1292  
**Rating:** PG  
**Summary:** Fortunately for Denethor, Finduilas's plans are falling apart.  
**Author's Notes:** Not my characters. What can I say; I'm a one-shot girl at heart. This plot twist can be blamed primarily upon Eggo Waffles and the folks at TolkSarc*. I swear that most of my more canonical sources left out the drama.

*Also responsible for Bombadil the Witch-King, the Great Balrog Slippers Debate, and the Rabid Giant-Cow-Milking Stork Maneuver. It's best not to ask.

* * *

She had worn white, that day, for Belfalas and Minas Tirith both. The color did not particularly suit her, generally speaking, but she added plenty of powder and pinched her cheeks for luck. By the time she approached him, she figured that she would have plenty of natural coloring, anyway.

It was fortunate that she had met him here, in the capitol, and not at home, where rumors would spread if she so much as glanced at him. There were problems enough without certain past indiscretions coming to light. In Dol Amroth, there was no telling what he might have heard from her childhood friends or distant relatives, but here, they were both strangers in a strange land. Here, she might have a fair go at playing the part of the exotic princess that could seduce any man she wanted. Even Thorongil.

Ah, Thorongil! The Great Eagle among captains; the guiding star amongst men; he was too mysterious by half, and Finduilas was determined to root those mysteries out. She had studied him, won his undivided interest a time or two during mealtime discussions, and he had danced with her five times throughout the course of the week's nightly entertainments. Now, it was time for the next step.

She breathed in deeply, gathering her courage. There were still potential sources of rumor, in the form of her father, her little brother, Lord Denethor, his sisters, and other jealous young ladies of the court. But Finduilas trusted her family members not to have told too many embarrassing stories; her father approved of her seeking a potential husband and Imrahil's silence could be bought or threatened into continuation. Telling stories on siblings was always a double-edged sword, especially when said sibling was older and remembered more tales. The rumors spread by the women of Minas Tirith were spun of whole cloth, and hardly daunted Finduilas in the least. Sea-gleams were as easy to dispel as they were to create.

It was only Denethor that had means and a possible motive to ruin her chances with Thorongil. It had not taken long to observe the truth of the tales; the Steward's son quite obviously despised his father's favorite captain. After their encounter in Belfalas, Finduilas believed Denethor too cold to want her for himself, but she would not put it past him to ruin her chances with the handsome captain purely out of an opportunity for dual revenge. She had seen the Steward's son withdrawing frequently for private conversations with her little brother, and Ulmo knew she had hardly been the kindest woman in Denethor's life. Over the past few days, Finduilas might have even sworn that she had caught Denethor staring at her. His expression had not been the pure discorn he saved for Thorongil, but those calculating gray eyes had hardly done wonders for her confidence.

But it was of no matter. Denethor would have likely remained as circumspect as always, but if he had not, surely the magnanimous Captain Thorongil would not have believed the tales brought to him from his worst enemy in Minas Tirith. Thorongil even held himself above Lord Denethor's petty grudge. Surely, the man named for his eagle eyes would be able to see the lady behind such rumors. Even if such rumors happened to be true.

There was no use scaring herself, though. She had but to insure she got a dance with him tonight, and then suggest a walk through the gardens. She had explored the territory thoroughly while her father and brother attended council sessions, and had found the Citadel gardens more than adequate for her purposes. They were more claustrophobia-inducing than those of her Palace were, but that was all to her advantage upon this night.

Finduilas glided through the crowds as softly and surely as a downy feather, making her way to where Thorongil stood in conversation with a few other soldiers and a covey of admiring ladies. It seemed the easiest thing in the world to suggest a dance, once the musicians started on a new song. The white-clad lady changed partners again and again, at last retiring once she had gained Thorongil's strong arm to rest upon. She moved out towards the gardens, claiming a need for the cool, fresh night air, and the captain went with her. It was here that her plans fell to pieces.

Thorongil was not the problem. He was perfect, charming; a gentleman even as he ever-so-delicately removed her heart and shattered it. "I am sorry, my lady," he had said, bowing over her hand. Those stormy gray eyes had looked into hers, and she could tell he meant it. He meant every word, but he was still in love with someone else. "Shall I send for your brother, or would you rather be alone?"

"No," Finduilas had managed, looking away. "I have troubled you enough. I will make my way back inside shortly; simply please tell my father not to worry about me."

"I shall." Another bow, and he was gone. Finduilas was only too happy to be in the secluded garden niche. It would not serve the purpose she had hoped it would, but the solitude served her well, nonetheless.

It was several minutes before she realized her private sanctuary had been intruded upon. "I will not say 'I told you so,' if you do not pretend ignorance." An arm, sleeved in sober black even during this festival night, was offered to her, a handkerchief in the hand. "Are you ready to rejoin the living, my lady? Your brother sent me out looking for you."

Finduilas resolutely pulled out a handkerchief of her own and dabbed at her eyes. "What do you mean, 'rejoin the living?' You're the one who looks as if he just returned from business on Silent Street."

"While attending your funeral." The Steward's son quirked an eyebrow, and then let his face relax into something that on any other man, Finduilas would have considered sympathetic. "You're paler than a seagull's ghost."

"Now you sound like my father." Finduilas had shown no intention of standing, but made room for him on the bench. He showed no indication of sitting next to her.

Denethor had managed to contrive a way of even making his shrugs seem eloquent. "There are worse men one could find oneself compared to. Now, will you come with me, Lady Finduilas?" he offered her a hand once more.

Pocketing her handkerchief, an absurd thought occurred to her. "You are afraid of being found in the gardens with a young lady, sir?" Denethor favored her once more with a raised eyebrow and a steady, disbelieving stare. Finduilas merely returned it, feeling her lips twitch in mirthless humor. Slowly, she extended her hand to his.

She was rather surprised by the power those cold fingers exerted, pulling her up from her seat. "Milady, if we two should ever find ourselves in a hidden nook of the gardens, it will be on our own terms, of our own free will. I will not content myself with Thorongil's leavings." Those steely eyes, which had always seemed cold and emotionless upon previous encounters, burned with something besides rage. Finduilas was surprised at how tentative the kiss upon her brow was; none of its shy, awkward hesitation was present in his eyes. "Just remember that I saw you first."

Finduilas blinked, reaching up to touch his proud face. "Denethor, I don't know that I've seen you yet."

That laconic, arrogant smile returned, and Denethor moved to her side, her hand perched gallantly atop his arm. "You really must learn to open your eyes, Finduilas." They moved back towards the light and the chaos, black and white, side by side in the evening's dusky glow.


	5. Sisterly Love

**Title:** Sisterly Love  
**Fandom:** Lord of the Rings  
**Characters:** Denethor, Finduilas, Imrahil, Thorongil, Denethor's sisters, Adrahil and Ecthelion  
**Prompt:** 9: You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away and know when to run  
**Word Count:** 1336  
**Rating:** PG  
**Summary:** Imrahil hadn't intended to get involved in a matchmaking scheme, but he knows better than to avoid this one.  
**Author's Notes: **Tolkien's characters, up to and including the Hurin girls. He just didn't name names. And the nose thing isn't just movieverse; Denethor is described with it in the books. This fic covers much of the same timeframe as "In Graying Twilight," this time from Imrahil's perspective. I'm not sure if I'll manage to include anything from Thorongil here, having covered the romantic angle somewhat in "Illumination" and seen better writers than I go through Thorongil's brain on the rivalry angle, but then I didn't think that prompt would generate a quarter of the fic it already has.

* * *

Imrahil had been watching for them, dallying near the garden entrance with a young lady or two entranced by his company. After all, his sister's handsome Thorongil was not the only foreign captain visiting Minas Tirith during the Midsummer councils, and what Imrahil might lack in daring escapes and stunning victories to discuss with his admirers, the Prince's son felt he made up for in boyish charm. Even some of the married ladies smiled upon Adrahil's heir with something more than general good-naturedness. Imrahil was not yet spoken of as Thorongil's equal, as a potential catch, but he had seen ship's cats consider a freshly hauled net with less enthusiasm than some of these lasses had regarded him with. Imrahil was also more than willing to make himself available to the attracted parties in Minas Tirith, perking several unwedded women's interests further.

The young man had been thoroughly enjoying himself, flirting his way between groups much as his sister had, but without any particular goal in mind. While this airy game of diplomacy came easily to him, Imrahil had been struggling with the drier half of political theory: making sense of proper countrywide policy. So far, Adrahil had not yet abandoned his heir to grope towards understanding of the full minutes of Ecthelion's councils by himself, but the barrage of questions the Prince of Dol Amroth put to Imrahil after the fact could be enough to make his head spin.

The traditional Lithe-Day celebrations were a welcome respite to trying to remember which village in which providence had been flooded in which year, and who owed whom taxes for the resulting dam, and which town had just been invaded by orcs and needed just how many men and what supplies… It was not that Imrahil did not care about the people of Gondor and their various plights, but simply that he just could not remember all the details. Truthfully, there were times when he wondered if his father questioned him so because Adrahil himself needed a reminder. Surely, no one could remember all that without a library's worth of notes. But through the memories of their sons or devices of their own, the Ruling Prince and the Steward seemed to manage it. Then there was Denethor, reciting facts and figures at his father's side with the accuracy of a scribe, barely glancing at the papers he brought. And for every case Denethor had, Thorongil could usually elaborate further or provide a counterexample. Most of the other lords tended to confine such displays to knowledge of their own lands, but Imrahil could admit that he was impressed.

Constrained by his studies, the young man had envied his sister her idle time, and intended to make full use of his without having to worry about Finduilas's affairs. But a pair of hawk-nosed matrons had come to plead their case, grudgingly convincing him otherwise.

"You're young Imrahil of Dol Amroth?" the taller of the two had asked him directly, studying him with strangely familiar looking gray eyes.

"Aye, that I am. How might I be of service to you, my ladies?"

"Lady Emeriel of Lamedon," the shorter one identified herself. "And my sister Thaliwen. Our brother has sent word that he has been having complications with your sister, and we're here to help."

Imrahil stared at them dumbfoundedly. "Finduilas isn't courting anyone at the moment," he managed at last.

The woman identified as Thaliwen rolled her eyes. "He wouldn't have asked her, would he?"

Emeriel smiled and shook her head, adjusting her young daughter on her hip. "One practically has to push the boy up the mountains before he'll do something like that on his own."

"Excuse me," Imrahil interrupted, "but do I get to meet this potential brother-in-law of mine before I help you throw him at my sister?" Both women turned to stare at him as if he had just declared intentions of dancing with a Nazgul.

"Cheeky," Thaliwen murmured, after exchanging a glance with her sister. "I believe you already know Denethor, young Imrahil."

It was his turn to reconsider the two women in front of him. That would explain the eyes… and the noses, for that matter. "And what exactly inspired this sudden offer of aid? Finduilas and Lord Denethor have not considered courting in over a year."

Emeriel's gaze wandered over the crowd, focusing at last upon the man taking shelter within the shadow of a statue. She inclined her head towards the black-clad figure, pointing him out to her companions with her large, protruding beak. Denethor's attention was focused more or less circumspectly upon a dancer in white, from what Imrahil could tell. "He'd never consider such a thing," Emeriel responded. "Little Brother would debate such a matter internally until the lady in question passed him by. He is not, however, generally known to obsess over women that have turned him down."

Thaliwen disrupted Imrahil's thoughts, clucking her tongue as she watched the object of Denethor's focus. "She's dancing with Thorongil, Sister."

Emeriel smiled, though the prince's son raised an eyebrow. "And what's wrong with that? She likes him. Wait, why are you smiling? I thought you wanted to set your brother up." Imrahil was not quite sure what to make of these women, but he had to admit that he liked Denethor, perhaps even more than Thorongil. The latter was a good man, and a captain that would do any city proud, but there was too great of an unknown factor in Thorongil's past. He was the type of war-hero Imrahil would rather admire from a distance than discuss family matters with. Thorongil was just a little too perfect, too awe-inspiring for Imrahil get close to. Denethor would also usually hold the young man at arm's length, but then, Denethor kept everyone at arm's length. And Imrahil had seen the Steward's son in his moments of weakness, and he could feel a bit more confident in the fact that Denethor, at least, would not break under pressure. Thorongil, for all Imrahil knew, was a handsome sea mist that would dissolve as soon as Ecthelion's immediate need for him disappeared.

"Aye, but our good Captain Thorongil is already engaged. More's the pity," Emeriel sighed, hugging her child a little closer.

"Oh," was all Imrahil could manage. He started toward his sister, intending on cutting in upon her dance before she made a fool of herself, but Thaliwen's narrow hand landed upon his shoulder.

"Lord Imrahil, we would be in your debt if you were to go to your friend our brother and mention that you are worried about your sister." Those proud, gray eyes were somewhere between begging and pleading.

Imrahil met her gaze coolly. "And if I decide to let Finduilas find her own happiness?"

Emeriel made shooing gestures at him with her free hand. "Certainly, they should find their own happiness. We're merely providing the opportunity."

The young man smirked. "Women!" he muttered, shaking his head. "I am going have to get plenty of brotherly support from Denethor if I am to survive being related to two more meddling gossips."

Thaliwen released his shoulder, as Finduilas and her dancing partner left for the gardens. "He could probably use such as well." She smiled, but the sisters never took their eyes from him until Denethor had left the feast-hall. Only then did Imrahil feel comfortable enough to seek out more pleasant conversation.

Out of morbid curiosity, Imrahil lingered by the doorway, awaiting the results of their little experiment. Finduilas at last returned on Denethor's arm, both of them slightly too flushed for the cool of the night air. Finduilas also looked as if she had been crying, but her eyes were filled with bemusement rather than distress, and their outfits were as neat as the late hour could allow for. Taking this as a good sign, Imrahil slipped into the dance before Denethor could exchange more than a nod with him. To his limited surprise, his sister and her companion followed suit. To no one's amazement, a pair of matrons resting near their father's simple stone seat were trading very satisfied smiles.


	6. Only

**Title:** Only  
**Fandom:** Lord of the Rings  
**Characters:** Finduilas/Denethor, mentions of Imrahil and Thorongil  
**Prompt:** 50: it doesn't mean much; it doesn't mean anything at all  
**Word Count:** 136  
**Rating:** G  
**Summary:** Nothing had truly been worth changing her mind for, but Finduilas begins to do so anyway.  
**Author's Notes:** Not my characters. Finally, a drabble that stayed a drabble and didn't morph into a Gigantic Crackbunny of Doom. I've been getting too many of the latter at the time, and none of them finished, but at least one of them did turn out to contain more Thorongil.

* * *

It had only been a dance. As such, it was nothing different from anything she had done with even her father or brother. Imrahil was a better dancer, honestly, although the Steward's son had at least accomplished a single waltz without trodding upon her feet. Still, it was nothing like being carried away in Thorongil's arms as she had dreamed about.

It had only been a kiss. He had been much more tenative than tender, and inexperience had made him clumsy. Besides, being kissed upon the forehead made her feel like a young girl, not the self-assured, mysterious foreign princess she hoped might win Thorongil's heart.

So why did the gray eyes that haunted her dreams seem darker tonight? Why did that stare that followed her seem almost… comforting? Finduilas could hardly wait to return home.


End file.
